


Red on White on Orange

by HoopyFrood



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Clothing Kink, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Flirting, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Phone Calls & Telephones, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: Effy checks in on Orange. Post-AEW: Dynamite 24/06/2020.
Relationships: Orange Cassidy | JC Ryder/Effy | Effy Gibbes, Trent Barreta/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	Red on White on Orange

“Effy’s going to kill us, dude,” Trent says as he and Chuck watch Orange get patched up by the AEW doctors.

The blood splattered across Orange’s shirt has already dried to a deep brown. They probably could have grabbed him a fresh one before belatedly coming to his aid after the cameras stopped rolling, but at some point between the end of the lumberjack match and Jericho going through a table, the two of them had become a little distracted.

Actually, that’s giving them way too much credit. The second Wardlow pinned Luchasaurus, Chuck was tugging Trent by his suspenders backstage and through the nearest door, desperate to rid him of his flannel and get his mouth on his skin. They barely even had time to change before sprinting back to the arena.

“Pfft, he’d be one to talk. Have you seen that photo of him covered in blood with his hand down his trunks?”

Trent rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but there’s a difference between willingly getting into a ring with Shlak and seeing the guy you’re fucking get his ear ripped off by Chris Jericho on national television.”

Chuck waves away his concern. “Effy knows we can’t do shit when he gets in the zone. And anyway, it’s just a cut. No biggy.”

Orange inhales sharply through his teeth, the sound oppressively loud in the small room, and Trent and Chuck wince in sympathy. “Okay, maybe it’s a _little_ worse than just a cut. Come on, big guy,” Chuck soothes, slipping his hand into Orange’s. “Squeeze my hand. As hard as you need.”

“Stings like a bitch,” Orange mutters as he grips Chuck’s hand tightly.

The unmistakable sound of a phone buzzing fills the small room. Everyone begins to pat down their jeans before Trent eventually fishes his out of his back pocket and squints at the screen.

“It’s your boy,” Trent says to Orange before answering. “Hey, man. Yeah he’s right here getting some stiches. Should I put you on speaker?”

Trent cocks his head to the side as he listens before nodding once and setting his phone down next to Orange.

“Bleeding from the head every week is becoming a little predictable, don’t you think?” Effy says in lieu of a greeting.

Orange huffs in amusement, the pained lines etched deep into his face by the needle stitching his skin back together smoothing out as his grip on Chuck’s hand slackens.

“Hold still,” one of the doctors lightly chastises. “Don’t want to end up sewing your ear to your head.”

“Sorry, doc,” Orange mumbles. “Did I at least look cool?” he asks Effy.

“Very cool,” Effy assures him. “That last shot of you before going off air? Now that’s a damn t-shirt if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Chances are it’ll be on Pro Wrestling Tees by the end of the night,” Trent chimes in. “Hell, it probably already is.”

“Guess I better get my credit card ready, then,” Effy replies.

“Ooh, get one for me,” Chuck says, leaning closer to the phone.

Effy laughs. “Get your own! And anyway, don’t you get a couple of boxes free?”

“Well yeah, but this way you’d be directly supporting a struggling artiste.”

Orange snorts from his spot on the examination couch.

“ _Struggling artiste_ ,” Effy mimics. “Remind me again who your boss is? Try Twitch streaming every week and selling birthday greetings on _Cameo_ because the entire independent scene has come to a screeching halt and then we’ll talk.”

“Oh, sure, play the pandemic card.”

“Fuck you,” Effy says fondly. “I enjoyed tonight’s lumberjack look, by the way,” he continues. “I’ve always said the lumberjacks in a Lumberjack Match should be dressed accordingly otherwise it’s just false advertisement.”

“It was Colt’s idea,” Trent admits.

“Then I guess I know where to send my thank you card. Although, and this is just a suggestion, maybe go with shorts next time. Your fans will thank me.”

Chuck takes a few moments to savour the image of Trent in shorts before replying. “Are we talking jorts or daisy dukes?” He asks.

“Well, daisy dukes are technically jorts, though, right? Jorts literally just means jean shorts,” Trent counters.

“Sure, but when you think of jorts you don’t think of hot pants, you think of a dad with a beer belly mowing the front yard or, I don’t know, John Cena,” Chuck explains.

“I guess,” Trent concedes with a shrug.

“All daisy dukes are jorts, but not all jorts are daisy dukes,” Orange sums up solemnly.

“Put that on a cushion,” Effy adds.

“All done,” one of the doctors says, snapping off his latex gloves. “I assume you know all the dos and don’ts when it comes to stitches, right?”

“I’ll make sure he wears a bag over his head in the shower,” Effy assures him before Orange can reply.

“What he said,” Orange says.

“Please don’t do that,” the other doctor says with the dispassionate acceptance of someone who regularly works with wrestlers that rarely listen to their advice.

Trent helps Orange up into a sitting position. He sags slightly to one side, but Chuck’s there to prop him back up. Once he’s standing, Trent offers him a new pair of sunglasses and Orange gratefully slips them on, mindful not to catch them on his brand new set of stitches.

“So what’s the damage?” Effy asks. “Am I going to have to ask RJ how to make a _Phantom of the Opera_ mask out of paper plates?”

“Oh, definitely. He’s horribly disfigured,” Trent says.

“I can barely stand to look at him,” Chuck agrees. 

“At least I’ll finally be the pretty one in this relationship,” Effy says. “Silver linings, I suppose.”

Orange scoffs and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. “You always were the pretty one.”

Chuck pulls an exaggerated face of disgust. “Jesus fuck, you two are cute. Why don’t you say cute shit like that to me?” he asks Trent, punching him in the arm.

Trent frowns and absentmindedly rubs where Chuck had hit him. “Dude, I literally sucked you off in a janitor’s closet half an hour ago because you looked so hot, what do you want from me?”

“And they say romance is dead,” Effy ruminates. “You guys heading back to the hotel now?”

Chuck throws his arm around Orange’s shoulders, jostling him back and forth. “Yeah, gonna let Tony know Orange hasn’t died then grab our shit and go. We’ve got a couple of beers and a copy of _2 Fast 2 Furious_ with our names on,” he says, ruffling Orange’s hair for good measure.

Orange dips his head, his lips quirked up in a small, pleased smile. “Thanks, man.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it then,” Effy says before his voice turns softer. “You’ll call me when you get to the hotel, right?”

“You know it, baybee,” Orange replies in the same sappy tone.

“Thanks for looking after him. Well, _eventually_ , anyway,” Effy teases.

Trent pokes Chuck hard in the ribs. “Fucking told you,” he hisses.


End file.
